


i can be the source you crave

by virtuosity



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Carmen and things involving Carmen, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:39:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtuosity/pseuds/virtuosity
Summary: The thing that people didn’t understand about Tessa Virtue was that she really was a vixen - a lip-licking, dark-eyed, lithe hellion temptress. Sometimes Scott thinks he might be the only person in the world who sees it.





	i can be the source you crave

**Author's Note:**

> This just happened, guys. This was really not the plan when it started, but here we are. 
> 
> Also, to everyone who has left me a comment on the other fics I've posted, you are all the best. This fandom has been the most loving and welcoming fandom and it's amazing. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The thing that people didn’t understand about Tessa Virtue was that she really was a vixen - a lip-licking, dark-eyed, lithe hellion temptress. That’s what Scott wished people would understand. Yeah, she was sweet and kind and wide-eyed and that was all genuine, but there was this other side to her that was pure lust and sex and all manner of unspeakable things.

So. Carmen had been going really well for him. He wasn’t having trouble, no sir. This was all completely and totally _fine_.

It wasn’t at all a problem that her eyes had become a bottomless well of ‘oh the things I could do to you’ and he was one hundred percent sure that her body and mind could cash the checks her eyes were writing.

What was truly a problem was that she wasn’t keeping it on the ice anymore. He caught her lingering gaze in the gym, felt her eyes burning into him as they drove into practice. There was also a lot of moistening of lips and lingering of hands and _listen_ it’s totally fine and he’s not bothered by it at all but he’s actually getting really concerned she might legitimately be trying to kill him.

Though, on the one hand, what a way to go.

...Everything was fine.

She was Tessa, she was T, Kiddo, Tutu, and he did not in any way at all really, really want to pin her to the nearest flat surface and see if she tasted as good as she looked. Nope. Not even a little bit.

Especially today. Who cares that she’s got those mesh panel leggings on - and really who was the asshole that invented those - _also_ he’s pretty sure they have been steadily getting bigger and at what point is she just not wearing pants anymore -

Nope. Don’t go down that road.

He’s been leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, doing some meditative breathing exercises he’d found online for at least ten minutes. Marina had whisked Tessa off to god knows where for something relating to...costuming? Makeup? It didn’t really matter, except it totally did fucking matter because what the fucking fuck.

The last thing Tessa needed right now was copious amounts of eyeliner, but apparently the universe has entirely decided against giving him a break. Her eyes are thickly lined, lids shadowy, making the normally bright green of her eyes deep and smoky, and her lips are painted a sinful blood red and he can’t help but gape at her. At some point he realizes he’s being asked a question and how does he like her makeup oh you know he hates it so much he wants to rip his hair out, and that smirk on her face is both infuriating and so arousing he doesn’t think he’s ever been so hard in his life.

This is so unbelievably not fine.

He stands determinately, marches to the edge of the rink, and begins cutting fierce strokes into the ice. She matches him stroke for stroke.

The makeup has exactly the effect that he imagines Marina was going for - there is so much passion and heat and intensity for the rest of the day that by the time they’re done for the day, he’s surprised that the currents of electricity running between them aren’t visible to the naked eye. He’s never wanted someone this badly in his life and he really can’t focus on how much of that is because it’s Tessa because that’s not a road he can take himself - or them - down right now. But she’s panting as they put their guards on, letting her hand brush the back of his as they make their way to the locker rooms, and gives him one last haunting stare as the door shuts after her.

He’s supposed to take her home. He’s supposed to take her to _her_ home and then return to _his_ home and he’s supposed to do all of that while keeping his filthy hands off of her. Except the only thing he wants in the world right now is for the rest of his evening to focus entirely around the words ‘Tessa’ and ‘filthy’ and he has no idea how he’s even going to drive.

Turns out, not well. He doesn’t actually hit the other car, and technically they were going too fast when he turned, also in his defense people can’t drive for shit in Michigan. She’s both mad at him for driving recklessly and amused at what’s happening to him - because at this point it’s impossible to hide anymore - and honestly it’s just _pissing him off now_. He screeches to halt in front of her apartment and squeezes his hands on the wheel because if he doesn’t he’s gonna rip her clothes and probably pull her hair and leave marks that can’t be hidden.

He really can’t do that.

Except he totally can, because before he realizes it his lap is full of a scorching hot squirming Tessa and her nails are digging painfully into the skin under his shirt and her tongue is in his mouth and she’s rolling her hips like _that_ and he’s going to lose his mind.

He puts his flexibility and strength to good use as he maneuvers her out of the car while keeping her in his arms, legs wrapped around his waist. He gets her up the stairs and through the door and that’s when all hell breaks loose.

He’s pretty sure that if someone were to walk into the apartment the next morning they would be able to trace the events of the previous evening the same way they would analyze a crime scene. They would be able to tell by the haphazard pile of shoes, leggings, and underwear by the front door that that was where he’d gotten the chance to find out the answer to the question of how she tasted. Then they would be able to tell by his hastily discarded jeans and boxers that as soon as he’d pushed to his feet, letting her taste herself on him, she’d shoved him forward and dropped to her knees. They would see that (almost too late) he had then pulled her to her feet and wrenched her shirt off over her head just as she had done the same to him, and they could see where he had carelessly flung her bra to the far side of the couch. He’s not sure if it would be obvious that she had shoved him to the couch so that she could straddle him and take him as deeply as she could, hard and fast, but he wonders if he could get away with putting up a memorial plaque or banner or _statue_ that declared that spot as the first place he had made Tessa Virtue come.

A keen-eyed observer would be able to tell by the disarray on the hall table that once he’d picked her up from the couch he had only made it that far before he had to press her to the wall for a minute or five or ten, his hands easily holding her up as she wrapped herself around him - a moment they had literally trained for. He assumes it wouldn’t be obvious that she had pulled his head back and nipped sharply at his lip in warning, drawing the slightest sliver of blood, and growled for him to take her to bed, but he knows. He’s never going to forget that.

They also won’t know that once he had her in her bed that he’d discovered his imaginings of her as a tantalizing sex kitten were in fact rather tame. That she was insatiable and aggressive and god he wants to use words like ‘extraordinary’ and ‘phenomenal’ but all he can come up with once she’s done with him is her name and the word ‘fuck’ in all its incarnations.   

In the end, nobody needs to know that they had each other in every way but one or that they exhausted their elitely trained bodies and minds and collapsed together in a heap of sweat and release and found sleep tangled in each other. Or that he woke in the middle of the night unable to keep his hands off of her and they’d had each other in that one final way - that slow, deep, slick way, where it’s not about finding satisfaction, it’s about getting lost in each other, eye to eye and sharing breaths.  
  
When he wakes early the next morning he lets her sleep, knowing she won’t be up for hours, but he doesn’t leave. It’s their day off, so he showers then makes his way to the couch, surveying the wreckage of their hurricane of...who even knows anymore. He finishes her weird granola and knows she’s not going to be pleased but doesn’t care, he watches game recaps on TSN, and around ten when he starts to nod off he finds his way back to her bed, curling around her and letting himself fall back to sleep.

When he wakes again, she’s awake and he has several realizations. First, nothing they did last night made him want her any less. Second, he can tell that she feels the same. And third, it should be weird but it’s not. They should be embarrassed or shy, but they aren’t. He’s just had a night full of the best sex of his life and all he wants is to do it all over again, but he doesn’t. They talk for awhile, mostly about skating and how Danny broke his arm again and about Jordan’s law school graduation, though she does tease him about how much he liked it when she used her teeth and nails and he makes sure she knows that he noticed how much she liked getting her hair pulled.

The rest of the day plays out like it normally would except when she rests her legs in his lap as they watch TV she’s only wearing his boxers and a tank top and when it’s time for him to leave he kisses her again just because he can and because he knows he probably won’t get to anymore.

Nothing really happens after that. The program doesn’t lose its heat, they don’t lose their connection, nobody gets a broken heart. But as the years pass he comes to realize that it wasn’t lust or Carmen or hormones that had done them in that night. It was only once they’d come out the other side of a complicated string of other people and Sochi and fucking Scotland that he figured out why it felt the way it did, why it was like that with her and no one else, why they were the best but only when they were together.  

And then they got to do it again.


End file.
